


The Military Kink

by Sparcina



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluid D/S dynamics, Kissing, M/M, Manipulation is in order, Oral Sex, Sherlock is not clueless, Someone has a military kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 06:37:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3347234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcina/pseuds/Sparcina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John first becomes aware of Sherlock's interest, he isn't sure what to make of it... And then he puts on the uniform again, because why the hell not?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Military Kink

            The first time John noticed it, he wasn’t sure what to think.

            Mycroft had invited the both of them to a ceremony meant to reward their most recent exploits. It looked like the city of London was very pleased with Sherlock’s bad interpersonal skills indeed, since it had brought down the crime rate a few digits, leaving only the stupidest scum on the street—which Lestrade’s team could handle well enough, according to Sherlock. 

            The problem was to make Sherlock come.

            Then again, John was used to bring around his flatmate. He had pointed out that if he didn’t show up, John would go alone, which meant no one would embarrass Mycroft or Lestrade in front of a crowd of very important people. After twenty minutes of his usual sulking, Sherlock had indeed dressed up into an acceptable attire and dragged his feet to Buckingham Palace. John had approved of the jeans and old shirt: first, it beat the hell of having him clad in bed sheets, and second, he would probably have his Belstaff coat on most of the time anyway. 

            And third, he should probably add, he didn’t have much of a choice. He couldn’t exactly order Sherlock around, now, could he?

            The detective’s reaction to _his_ attire was certainly unexpected. John was sure nobody else had noticed or understood the glances Sherlock had thrown his way during the ceremony, the attendees probably too caught up in the man’s sharp tongued answers and everyone else’s reaction to them, especially the Queen’s and Mycroft’s, but John had lived with him for over two years, gone through hell and one level deeper. He knew his reactions, and _this_ one didn’t belong to his carefully built-up catalogue.

            If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn that Sherlock was _aroused._ The fact would have been astounding in itself if John hadn’t suspected the reason of said arousal, which was his present attire.

            His honest-to-god military uniform. John tried to straighten up some more, but he was already stiff as a stick. He couldn’t help the faint blush that crept to his cheeks.

            It looked like Sherlock wasn’t asexual… Not that he had actually believed it in the first place.

**OoO**

            Since a few stolen glances didn’t prove anything, John decided to test his theory one step further. Sherlock had never reacted badly when he had defended himself in a very Captain Watson fashion, so he decided to dig back in his former identity a bit more.

            He contacted a couple of friends from his time in Afghanistan and began to meet them in a café a couple of block east of Baker Street. The subjects they discussed weren’t especially joyous, but oh, the reaction of Sherlock to his clothes and persona before he left the flat on those strange days… these were more than thrilling.

            Glances lasted longer. John was no detective, but he was a doctor and had had his fair share of sexual experiences, so he knew the signs. Dilated pupils. Shortness of breath. Deeper voice. Was Sherlock even aware of his body betraying him? After one month of this little game, John decided that he wanted—no, yearned— to see how far he could go, how far Sherlock was willing to let him go, before...  He shook his head, blushing in turn, glad of the intimacy provided by his bedroom. A sigh escaped him. Sherlock was...

            John wanted to extract this brilliant mind of him and lay it in a precious box, softly and gently, and then fuck the daylight of that man until the most sought-after detective in Europe was unable to do anything more than beg for his cock and come all over himself.

            The mental picture actually didn't do anything to steady his ever diminishing self-control. 

**OoO**

            Sherlock actually helped things along. At first, Wilson was confused—and more than a tad angry. Upon his return to the flat, it was becoming increasingly common that something important would be broken—like the fridge—, or that Sherlock was insulting a client with unprecedented viciousness. Never before had the detective been this _annoying_ in all the time they had known each other.

            John didn’t scream—he _didn’t_ scream, after all. He went all strict and authoritarian to the point of ordering Sherlock around, as he would have done with a childish nurse or a petty soldier back in Afghanistan. He made Sherlock clean up the messy experiment that had invested his bedroom floor, had call the repairer and buy a new fridge himself, had him even apologize to his distressed clients, had him... had him in all the ways that didn't truly matter. And the most amazing thing was, Sherlock didn’t protest. Oh, he might complain a bit, but to John, the contrast with his previous behavior was like daylight after a full month in the North Pole.

            The conclusion was self-evident: Sherlock kept putting himself in a position that forced John into military rigidity and dominance.

            Not that he thought that Sherlock would be vanilla. He would have been quite surprised if he had. 

**OoO**

            On the first day of December, John came back from one of his post-Afghanistan reunions in their usual chaotic flat. He stood in the door frame, clad in his military garbs, and cast a glance at his thoroughly sexy flatmate, who gave all the outward signs to be highly focused on a 10 000-piece puzzle. The floor was otherwise covered in papers and broken glass, part of it, at least, explained by a naked window frame.

            John just stared at him -he seemed to be doing that a lot these days-, and after ten seconds at most, Sherlock turned around, pupils immediately blown, a delicious blush spreading to his cheeks. John fought the urge to bring the other man to his knees and slap the high chiseled cheekbones—it should have been forbidden by natural evolution to wear such delicate, and yet sensual features. He would slap that beautiful face gently, of course; he only wanted to bring out a gasp out of those obscenely sensuous lips and some more  red on those maddening cheeks. Oh, the things he could do to get a wanto...

            He could only thank his strict training for not giving in to his sharp desire here and then. 

            “What happened to the window?” he asked in a sharp tone.

            No longer interested by the disaster on the floor, Sherlock stood up in one feline motion and strode towards him, all grace and anticipation. His eyelids were heavy with lust, his lips parted on words yet unsaid. John reckoned his genius flatmate knew what this whole charade was about by now.

            “A client displeased me,” Sherlock answered nonchalantly, stopping a few inches from him. “The window struck me as the best way to end a very boring conversation.”

            John couldn’t hide his shock. Had Sherlock actually thrown the poor lad out of the window?

            “I didn’t throw him out of the window,” Sherlock pointed out, pulling the thought out of his head. And wasn't that the weirdest turn on John had ever known “I just felt it was…”

            The detective licked his lips, locking eyes with John. The other man wanted to grab his collar and ravage him on the spot.

            “To break the window?” John asked breathless.

            “To break the ice, yes.”

            The last word sounded incredibly erotic. John decided the time was ripe for the next level.

            “You misbehaved,” he groaned. “Again.”

            “And what are you going to do about that, _John_?”

            Sherlock smirked. He just  _smirked,_ the bastard. Without really thinking about what he was doing, John gripped his shirt and pulled roughly.

            “To you it shall be be Captain Watson, I think.”

            The way Sherlock looked at him, then, totally undid him. He looked like… He looked like he would do anything John asked, with no exceptions, with a preference for knees-induced punishments. His eyes had gone jet black, pools of repressed fantasies come to life. John forced the man on his knees, meeting only the slightest resistance, and tugged at a strand of wild,black hair. Sherlock winced ever so softly.

            “You like to be like this,” he whispered in his ear. "On your knees, for me."

            Sherlock shivered, hot and feverish to the touch, and pressed himself to the body in uniform. John moaned, a little ashamed at the extent of his own arousal. Stars of amusement floated in Sherlock’s eyes.

            “I love it, Captain.”

            John crashed his mouth against a very, very willing pair of sinful lips.

           After that, it was like a storm had come down on him. A bolt of desire tore though his body, awakening every nerve ending that wasn’t already blazing. Lust and impatience coursed through his veins as he plundered the mouth so nicely offered to him, that pair of deep red, tasty lips, that he had looked at so often since their first meeting without wondering at their taste, their texture, their addictive quality. And now he knew. God, he knew, and he couldn't imagine a world where he let him go.

            "Captain..." 

            In spite of the moaned title, Sherlock’s submissive thread had visibly receded. He returned John’s kiss with equal fervor, biting at his lips, discovering his mouth with lips and tongue and teeth. When he sucked at his tongue, in such an exquisite way there was no doubt Sherlock had experience, John went light-headed with bliss. He moaned loudly, echoed by Sherlock, whose hands had snaked between their bodies to stroke his stomach. He had always known that those long fingers would be his undoing. 

            John snapped back to focus, which happened to be an especially hard task.

            “No, Sherlock,” he growled, pulling at a fistful of soft hair.

            The detective followed the movement and offered his pale neck to his hungry eyes. John covered it with kisses and bites, suddenly afraid there would be some part of Sherlock he wouldn’t get to taste and savor. The man at his feet was nothing short of a six-course meal, the only one he would ever get to enjoy in his life, and he planned to overwhelm his five senses with every single atom in its making.

            “Captain… John… I want you.”

            The title on this sharp tongue and his first name, a plea _and_ a moan, brought his arousal to this side of painful. He kissed Sherlock’ earlobe, dove on the pulse jumping wildly under the sweaty skin, and sucked at it like a madman, groaning as the red mark bloomed under his ministrations. The little sounds of pleasure escaping Sherlock’s gorgeous lips drove straight to his groin.

            “Show me what you want.”

            He was a little amazed his brain had managed a logical sentence with subject, verb and complement in the right order.

            Sherlock, ever obedient in this new set of mind, went to work on the lower part of his uniform. John gasped at the touch of deft and warm fingers, musician’s fingers, on his heated skin. Sherlock run his nose on the side of his arousal, eyes closed and lips parted. John knew exactly what he wanted to do with those lips. He knew the words he should say next, as the Captain of Sherlock’s fantasies, but he couldn’t find his voice. He hadn’t been raised like that. Those words were just so…

            Dirty.

            “I want to suck you off."

            As always, Sherlock had found the solution before him. John didn’t think about punishing the omission of his title as a hot mouth engulfed him, _Sherlock_ ’s mouth, that drove every single person he talked to crazy with indignation.

            John wanted every single thing his sharp tongue had to offer.

            “Oh my God, Sher…”

            He sagged as the detective’s hand reached for his balls. In no time at all, he was down a very tight and very hot throat. He felt like a supernova on the verge of its death. In any minute, he would explode; in any minute, he would shatter in ecstasy, down, down, down and he would gladly go and fall and surrender to this marvelous man who was blowing him like it was the greatest treat in the world, an unsolvable case offered to his detective’s papillae…

            “Fuck, Sherlock!”

            His mind went blank as he came, any acknowledgement of impropriety dissolving into the wave of rapture that cut through him, blade of the softest edge, end of the world. He screamed the name of the man with the Cheshire cat’s smile and looked at him, transfixed by want, as he licked the white drop at the corner of his mouth and swallowed. His body decided it might be a good moment of fall on his knees.

            “Sherlock, you…”

            The detective offered him his trademark smile of arrogance.

            “You have a very interesting kinky side, _John_ ,” he purred, nose to nose, one hand on John’s thigh. “It took you long enough to figure it out.”

            John’s brain cells began to fire again. Synapses jumped around in somersaults of perplexity.

            “Aren’t you the one who… who…”

            His embarrasment at stuttering faded when Sherlock lined his body with him, his arousal painfully evident. John itched to touch him. Damn it! He had wanted to render Sherlock brainless with pleasure, and now here _he_ was, in the afterglow of his own orgasm, straddled by a very pleased Sherlock Holmes.

            “Did you think for one minute I was clueless?” crooned the infuriating man between two kisses on his neck. “Really, John… I _do_ love surprises.”

            “It’s Captain for you!”

            Sherlock laughed with delight. John had always been a bit slow to pick up on clues, but then, he wouldn’t want him in any other way. John was _his_.


End file.
